I’m sitting here now,

in the quiet untold

how readily

a sense of anxiety I choose.

Who am I why am I

is it always only true.

Who do I hurt,

why do I hurt,

there’s a constancy

with a mania

outside of the norm.

Always questions remain,

my self confidence

Is it true or a ruse.

I can never be responsible

for knowing,

though I would every corner

concede.

I only wish a peace,

not a lot to ask

given the years of

persecution.

Is that it now,

am I defining myself?

Or perhaps it is a

penchant for precision,

always getting in the way.

In the notes

I’m meant to travel,

so I always try to

hang on,

remember those moments that help secure

a sense of well being,

a confidence

as that seems all of our desire.